Psychedelic Marine

by alex seymour

  My hands moved involuntarily, forming into a prayer position. An energy was controlling the actual physical position of my hands, so much so that when my hands moved away from one another, within a minute they mysteriously drew back together again in the prayer position, fingertips extended, touching lightly. Why did this always happen? I’m not religious but had an overwhelming sense that ayahuasca was teaching me something. JJ is a schoolteacher. I thought that he should come to the Amazon and drink. It was such a natural fit: the plant teacher and the schoolteacher. Together a formidable force for good. JJ come to the Amazon and drink ayahuasca. I recommend it 100 percent. I recommend it 1,000 percent. How ridiculous does that sound? But the same thought spilled over and over and over. I recommend it 1,000 per cent. The words refused to go away.

  The reverie was disturbed by queer noises coming from the people lying nearby. Until now everyone had remained disciplined and quiet. Occasionally, someone called out for Andreas, and he strode into the middle of the circle, his huge bulk silhouetted against ambient light from the moon and asked, “Who called me?”

  When the person identified him- or herself, he went over and solved the problem. During the briefing on the ship, Andreas had told us that if someone appeared to be troubled or in need of assistance, we were to ignore them. He and his team would be on hand immediately to lend any assistance. He asked us to be selfish, to focus only on ourselves, to pay attention only to our intention. Hard as it might be, if someone needed assistance, we should not concern ourselves or take action—no matter how anguished the person seemed to be. “Do not help anyone!” he had explicitly commanded. Taking that instruction to heart had amplified the anticipation of what was to come.

  But now exceptionally unusual noises were coming from a woman lying a few mattresses away. She was making a weird ahhh sound, more than a sigh, lasting as it did for five to ten seconds at a time. It started at a low pitch and rose higher and higher, or sometimes the reverse. Initially, rather than a woman in ecstasy, it sounded eerie. But it developed into much more than that—as if she were encountering an entity that possessed majesty so astounding that she was awed to a state where mere words were useless to express its magnificence. It was unnerving, the feeling you’d get from a wolf howling in the wild. She uttered occasional gasps of wonder, although she sounded simultaneously fearful and humbled in her rapture. At times it seemed as if she were on the cusp of either a scream or an uncontrollable laugh. I’d never heard anything like it. The noise must have been involuntary, because Andreas had instructed us to remain silent throughout the ceremony unless we needed his assistance. But as the ceremonies unfolded over the coming nights, this woman continued to make the same sounds.

  In between my own intermittent gasps of wonder, introspection reigned. Understanding the significance of being able to detach my self from the ego was as insightful as learning the magnitude of the golden rule as a child. If only I could have parked my ego before now. It was infuriating that the solution to much of life’s angst had always been hidden in plain sight if only the veil could have been lifted. The fights I could have sidestepped, the conflicts and squabbles, the overwhelming enormity of self-inflicted suffering that could have been avoided didn’t bear thinking about. And with new comprehension I realized that it is entirely possible to cruise through life, from birth to death, and never even get out of the third gear of consciousness: asleep, awake, occasionally drunk. Repeat for eighty years. Die. There are men I know who will do this, of that there is no doubt. The unholy triumvirate of laws, beliefs, and culture will tragically exclude them from the psychedelic experience. A psychedelic encounter for many men would be like food to an anorexic—what could nourish them is denied, and denied by their own volition.

  When the ceremony ended I lay there for a couple of minutes and watched the scene unfold as people rose up, shook themselves out of their introspection, and began talking. Robert, the heart surgeon, was near the foot of my mattress with Andreas, and I watched them embrace, two giants hugging. They held each other for a long while, an intimate moment. Andreas whispered in Robert’s ear. He listened intently for what seemed like an eternity, then slowly nodded and embraced Andreas again, only this time they placed their hands on each other’s upper arms and stared at each other in deep affection. Then they parted. I smiled, noticing a queue had formed behind Robert of other people who also wanted to thank Andreas. He asked us to thank César and the shamanas. We all clapped appreciatively, and they smiled rather shyly and nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

  Back on board the ship, there was a celebratory atmosphere. Everyone seemed relieved that they’d gotten through the ceremony and were safe, sanity intact. Everyone I talked to was still very much feeling the aftereffects of the brew. People laughed, hugged, and kissed, inquiring, “So, how was it for you?”

  I sat up on the top deck and shared a cigarette with Josh and Julian, the two young Americans. We were still feeling spaced out and woozy. I was thirsty and went to the dining room to grab a fruit juice. Glancing through the dining-room window, I saw Andreas sitting at the head of the long dining table on a high-backed chair reminiscent of a throne. He held a huge staff in his hand—a silent monarch. Two Australians—Phil and Trey—flanked him, sitting on each side, eyes closed, perhaps meditating. It was comically theatrical. I crashed into the room, breaking their trance. Andreas looked over, unfazed.

  “Alex, how are you?” he asked, smiling warmly.

  “Feeling supergood!” I gushed.

  I got the juice, we said good night, and I trotted off to my cabin. Panos was still not back, and so I went over to the full-length mirror and stared at my reflection. My pupils were dilated. The beard—my first—longer than ever. Stripped to the waist, I could see ribs poking through. A pendulous crystal wrapped in a cross-section of ayahuasca vine hung on a leather cord around my neck. A castaway stared back at me—a grown-up Lord of the Flies survivor.

  Panos returned, and we greeted each other like old friends. He looked deeply vulnerable as he described how he had developed what he referred to as a dark energy, a shadow, in his stomach area. He even had a specific name for this darkness—an Erebus, a kind of entity living in him. One of the reasons he had come on this trip was to try to manage his relationship with this Erebus. I surmised that Erebus were common to his part of Europe, a kind of ghoul that took up residence in certain unlucky people. He asked earnestly, “Do you have the same kind of thing where you come from?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  Every night when he went to bed, he would liberally sprinkle Agua de Florida around him and tap his stomach with an eagle feather. While waiting to join the group back in Iquitos, he’d purchased the enormous feather, which was two feet long and six inches at its widest. He loved it, so much so that, before going to sleep each night, he gently waved it up and down, tapping the tip of the feather on his midriff, where the Erebus resided, furnishing himself the comfort he needed. The Agua de Florida is a sweet perfume often used by shamans and ayahuasqueros in ceremony to cleanse a person or environment of dark energy. It made our room stink.

  Now, with this story of the Erebus, I understood that ritual—and that Panos was very superstitious. Sweet and gentle but plagued with doubts and conflicts exacerbated not only by his inability to see without glasses—to see things as they really are—but also by archaic beliefs about energies that could only be managed with rituals and potions. Then again, the shamans believed in and did the same thing. At the quantum level who really knows exactly what is happening?

  In all the time we shared a room, Panos never once inquired about my life outside the Mythic Voyage: where I came from, who I was, if I had a family. I think he just enjoyed using his imagination.

  I lay down and began to think about the war and the unorthodox possibility of how ayahuasca could help military men prepare for war and heal from war. If we could give modern combatants a sense of the possibility of an afterlife, as I had had with my very first expe
rience with DMT, based on their own direct mystical experience and not something that was merely taught or dependent on faith, then this had to be worth exploring and a potential source of comfort. I lay there thinking that so much pain is endured by emotionally wounded troops. On returning to the US, more troops were committing suicide each year than were actually killed in Afghanistan. There are many men I know who have returned from serving in Iraq and Afghanistan who have suffered greatly, who are, at the very least, disillusioned. A friend of mine has serious post-traumatic stress disorder, is addicted to nicotine, and has been prescribed strong antidepressant medication for the last three years. Veterans like these are denied legal access to natural substances that can induce mystical states. Many feel misunderstood. Some go rogue and postal. Suicides are rife. Everyone loses. Surely, if a natural psychedelic could inspire me with such renewed optimism and faith in the value of life, then it could conceivably be of benefit to other veterans, too.

  A totally unexpected gateway had opened in me to compassion, empathy, and a sense of everlasting life after death. The time for being culturally nudged into the seemingly blunt binary choice of being a religious believer or an atheist was over. This was a new alternative: spiritual. A new third way.

  I drifted off to sleep feeling a genuine sense of forgiveness for my father and stepfathers. Once and for all, I had to just let that shit go.

  16

  How to Get Lost

  T he next morning, I traipsed over to the dining room. Breakfast was eggs, melon, guava juice, and bread. Conversation around the table was lively and convivial; people were invigorated by their experience the night before. After breakfast most people gathered on the upper deck to enjoy the sunshine and the view. We were now so remote from anywhere that we hardly ever saw another boat—perhaps one a day. It was heartwarming to see the Shipibo ayahuasqeros interact with each other on the ship. They smiled constantly and wore intricately embroidered clothes and blankets during daylight hours. They were pleasantly plump and unquestionably happy. I had yet to see any one of them frown.

  Andreas announced that throughout the day he would be holding one-to-one consultations on a first-come, first-served basis. Everybody scrambled like schoolchildren to get their names to the top of the list. He was enigmatic, and there was no denying the influence he had over many of the voyagers. I was intrigued and put my name on the list. The consultations started immediately, lasted all day, and he didn’t take a single break. When it was my turn, I headed off to the library where they took place. He reclined in a grand red velvet armchair, his enormous bulk spilling out, like cake in a baking tray. “Come in. Welcome. Please take a seat!” His voice was deep and resonant, like Orson Welles with a Greek accent. His head was bald and shining, his black goatee neatly trimmed. He patted his face and head with a handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration.

  I took a seat opposite. “Thank you. I’m not really sure where to start.” It felt as if he was here to deliver an assessment, and I felt like a young boy about to be appraised by a headmaster. We made some small talk about the previous night’s ceremony, and he asked me to forgive him for the insects and mosquitoes. A strange thing to say considering there wasn’t anything he could have done about them. The chitchat didn’t last long, and soon we got to the main course.

  “Andreas, I’ve come here on this amazing journey, and I genuinely feel grateful to be surrounded by so many friendly people. But I do have one thing on my mind . . .” I stumbled, not really knowing how to articulate what I was feeling.

  “Yes?” he prodded me.

  “About a month ago I was in Afghanistan, in Helmand . . .”

  Silence. He looked utterly unimpressed, his face a mask of ambivalence. If anything, his expression conveyed boredom. I must have been about the 120th person to get “the big thing” off his chest during a private consultation over the various voyages. His body language said, “So you think that’s a big deal, do you big shot? Get over yourself. What’s your point?” What he actually said was, “So what?” He nodded, waiting for a response.

  When I didn’t respond he pressed on. “So what?” He shrugged, fixing his gaze. “Was it heavy duty?”

  More silence as we both considered what to say next. I still didn’t speak.

  “You know, Alex, you can say anything you want. Don’t worry.” His eyes remained intently on mine. It was intimidating. Nonetheless, I found my voice.

  “Overall, it was bad. Nad Ali, where I was, is a violent and dangerous place. We were surrounded by gunfire and explosions all the time. One of my best friends was very badly wounded. I heard the bomb explode. It was terrible. It killed three men and injured several more.” I paused, concerned I was rambling. “And I’m afraid to talk about it with anyone here on the boat because of the way it might make them feel. I don’t want to bring anyone down because each person has invested so much into this trip.”

  More silence, as Andreas considered his response. He was quiet for a long, long time. Then finally, he spoke, his eyes boring into mine. “Alex, my brother, it is OK for you to talk about the war with anyone you want—and whenever you want—as long as you talk about it with beauty.”

  He let the words sink in momentarily before continuing. “Let me tell you something. The reason there is so much pain and suffering and war in the world is because humanity is going through a rapidly accelerated pace of change. The pain and suffering we witness all over the world is a direct consequence of this accelerated change. Please understand this. You must realize this.”

  He stopped talking. I didn’t respond. I really didn’t know how. Once he was satisfied that his unorthodox view had seeded, he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “And, let me tell you something else that I know is real. The human race is mutating. We are mutating from Homo sapiens into beings of light, into what I call Homo luminous. We are evolving into self-programming beings of choice. This is the path that the human race is on. This is our destiny.”

  We spoke for a few more minutes before I said, “I have one more question. When I drink ayahuasca, I get a massively diminished sense of ego, and it’s liberating, and yet when I’m back in England, I need an ego to lead a team, to compete and win. So my question is, how do you know when your ego is balanced and healthy?”

  “It is perfectly fine for us all to have a sense of ego,” he replied, “and we should befriend our egos because the ego comes from a pure source. There are two core drivers in nature—the need to survive and procreate. And in order to survive, you need to compete. And that requires ego. Here in the Amazon a young sapling on the forest floor will push its way to the top of the canopy to survive to be close to the light. But we should only compete up to a point, until survival is assured. This is the mistake that much of mankind makes because there is now an overabundance of competitiveness. Symbiosis is the answer; cooperation is the key.”

  He took a breath and went on. “Secondly, we needed to procreate, to seek out mates. For this, we also need an ego. So let’s not be naïve about these two fundamental drivers; to be selfish at times is natural. So I try to wear my ego lightly. I even have a name for him—I call him Larry.”

  He glanced to his left shoulder, as if his ego were perched there like a parrot. Grinning, he said, “How you doin’, Larry?”

  He stopped smiling, took a slow breath, and looked back at me intently. “And be careful what beliefs you choose. Beliefs are the source of all emotional suffering. We need concrete beliefs—that the floor will be solid when we decide to place our feet upon it. This is a belief that clearly serves us. But if a belief does not serve us, we must ask if the belief is really true or not. You should only accept beliefs that serve you,” he stressed. “If you trust your intention to be happy, it will always lead toward the light. Trust your heart and you will not need moral rules.”

  As I rose to leave, he held out his arms as a signal to embrace. He gave me a bear hug, and it was slightly ridiculous—he was so huge that my arms failed to wrap very far aroun
d him. There was a two-foot gap between my hands as my arms extended around his back. Emotionally, it was another story. I felt a lump in my throat.

  “Thank you. This has been a special conversation.”

  He smiled as I left. I was thinking about his words about the war. He’d provided me an intriguing new angle when talking about it—to do so within a larger context of hope and beauty, without denying its darker side. I knew I could do that, and I was grateful.

  Beliefs. Would the world be a better place if there were no religions? Could we be spiritual without being dogmatically religious? Catholicism appeared now to be a significantly fear-based belief system, as were other global religious and faith-based systems. In Afghanistan many of the women were living appallingly bleak and wretched lives based on many of the Islamic beliefs they inherited. Men were offering up their lives as suicide bombers as a consequence of fundamentalism. I was becoming convinced that at a very deep level our fears, and fear-based emotions, were significantly impeding the development of humanity.